Tomorrow
-for the 99%
The cock crows at first light.
Cracking the wind’s direction
like wheat under the heavy plow
waking our eyes as red as buckshot
defying the night, calling the day, signaling
strength to rise and be heard by every women
and child; we are but men calling to the wild
that soon a dark room’s future will fold
under the color of light.
The dust never seems to settle without some rain
on our half grown gardens strange with the smell
of suffering. Toil never triumphs anymore, just another
ones hardship on the outlying trees never bearing
the fruit of his righteousness. We are more than just waves
breaking rock into more rock.
Copyright © Mike Butler | Year Posted 2011
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